


Knife Marks On Old Wood Furniture

by koanju (verstehen)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-30
Updated: 2007-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verstehen/pseuds/koanju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knife on the ground and wood underneath his fingertips; an old church brings fresh wounds to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife Marks On Old Wood Furniture

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M, approximately 8,000 words. // Post-AHBL. Co-written with Saeva.

"What the hell do you have in here, bricks?" Dean asked, but softly, because he knew how sore someone losing everything was after. He craned his neck back over to Bobby's pick-up. He'd helped Ellen haul five boxes into the run down church and there were about ten boxes left. Plus the bed frame and mattress Bobby had picked up from a local auction. And when he finished settling Ellen in, he still had to take the damn pick-up back to Bobby and Sam at the junkyard.

Maybe Ellen could spare him a pew and a blanket until morning.

"You're slowing down, Dean," Ellen called from the doors. They'd propped them opened with a couple of rocks from the grounds nearby and she was standing in the middle of the wide-open archway. Above the door were some freaky wood carvings he thought Sam would go geek over, given exactly where they were and who had built the damn place. He still didn't know how Ellen had managed to get ahold of Sam Colt's tract of land. Maybe the bar had been worth more in insurance than he thought. "We should get this done and protected before dark. There's still things out there waitin', even though the trap's fixed."

He nodded at her and shifted the box in his arms, sweat making his grip loose, and followed her. Given who exactly had built the damn place, he wasn't so sure they shouldn't have checked it out a little better before setting up shop.

The cursory run through and a visit from a man Ellen'd only referred to as "Preacher" had confirmed the ground of the church itself was still consecrated but what'd that even mean now? It was a whole new world when a crypt in the middle of an abandoned cemetery, a hundred miles inside a devil's trap, was actually a gate to hell that opened with a mythic gun. The optimism of killing the yellow-eyed bastard, once and for all, had worn into a sort of constant ache of worry and unease for Dean. He wasn't sure how Sam was dealing with it, except through lots and lots of reading.

In the week and a half it'd been since an army of demons came barreling through, Sam must've read every book Bobby even had. It was freaky, even for Sammy.

"You're looking a million miles away, sweetie," Ellen's voice broke through his thoughts as he thunked down the latest box on the pulpit stage next to all the others.

"Yeah, well, I've been hauling bricks all day. I'm tired," he groused at her.

"Not bricks," she said, pointing to an empty spot on a step. "Though if I'd known they'd improve your mood I would have made you do it a week ago." Reaching into the box she'd been carrying, Ellen pulled out two bottled waters. "Take a break." Then she threw the bottle at him, right at his head, and he nearly fumbled the catch, stepping back at the force right into the box he'd just set down. "Careful!" she snapped, when he regained his balance and moved over to check the box.

He'd felt the weak corner when he was carrying it, but his step had taken out what little support that'd been there. All sorts of little items had spilt right out. A man's necklace, a worn leather wallet that made him pat his back pocket to check as he bent down, a flask, and a small knife that looked a lot like Jo's.

"No way," he muttered, slipping his fingers around the slender hilt. No way she'd just left her father's knif -- When he turned it, he saw the E.S.H. inscribed on the side, just like the W.A.H. had been on the one Jo'd shown him. Oh.

"Seen the other one, have you?" Ellen's voice was more even now as she reached over to slide the knife out of his hands, tugging it away by the blade. "Jo always did like to play with it, even back when it was still Bill's." He looked over at her as she cradled the knife in both hands, the blade in her right and the hilt in her left. "Weren't much for the real hunting but these little boot daggers were great for surprises when something got too close." One side of her mouth was turned up in a small smile and, god, looking at her like that, with the light streaming through the stained glass window over the pulpit and through the wide open doorway... It reminded him of his dad, in the better times, when he used to tell the best memories of their mom to Sammy, before he went off to drown the pain in his three best friends: Jim, Jack and Johnny.

But, except for whatever might be in that flask there wasn't a drop of alcohol in this place. It hadn't been in the provisions he'd unpacked yesterday and whatever'd been at the Roadhouse had added fuel to the fire. Maybe that wasn't Ellen's way of --

Hey, wait. He cocked his head at her, straightening all the way with the other items clasped in one hand so that he could offer them over too. "You hunted?"

Ellen raised her eyebrows as she tilted her head back and looked at Dean. It made her long brown hair slide back over her shoulders. "Sweetie, you really think I'm the stay-at-home mom type?"

Way to make a guy feel sheepish. Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, holding the stuff out with the other. "Well. No. But you had the bar and all, and Jo said --"

She cut him off, dropping her small hand over his, the flask, and the necklace. "Jo doesn't know what she was talking about. That girl was hard enough to argue with; if she'd been able to throw 'Well, you did it and you're fine!' back in my face I'd have lost the argument a lot sooner."

The lady had a point and he changed the subject. Philly was still sore between them. "Who made the knives?"

"Bill did," she said, setting the knife down on the edge of the pulpit and fingering the necklace next. It had a medallion on it but Dean didn't get a real good look. St. Christopher, maybe? "For our first anniversary, after we took care of this ghost who liked to play nasty tricks on little kids."

Wow. That was sorta sweet in a fucked up way. "Huh."

He got the bottle of water back from the floor where he'd set it down and uncapped it to take a long, deep drink. The church felt like it hadn't been aired out since Colt'd built it, a sort of stifling, sick feel to your swallows. Like a crypt. But, fuck it, he wouldn't be the one living here.

By the time he'd wiped his mouth off, and noticed his sleeve tasted like ash, she'd pocketed the necklace and tucked the flask back into another box away. It still left him holding the wallet.

"Just set it down anywhere," Ellen told him. "It's mostly the pictures I want to keep. Don't have a lot of those left now." She moved a few feet away, to the empty steps and sat down, opening her water. She'd even left him space as she stretched her legs out at the bottom of the four steps and leaned her elbows over on the top. "Never had many to begin with."

That made him laugh sickly as he joined her, leaning forward unto his knees. "I don't think I've got a single one from the time Sam was 13 'til now," he told her. There were a few, when the both of them were younger and out with their dad. But none from after Sam's growth spurt. Maybe he should take a few, just to... have them, some of the two of them for Sam.

"You wouldn't think it now but Jo was a damn princess when she was little. She always used to mug for the camera." Ellen chuckled and he saw her close her eyes, that smile back on her face. It was a nice look on her, relaxed. Some of the tight, pinched lines that were around her eyes since the fire robbed her of everything were gone. "Most of the pictures back then were of her. There's probably a couple in the wallet." This time it was a real laugh, a deep, rumbling belly one that went straight to Dean's groin in a way he damn well wasn't proud of. She was a sexy woman, sure, but this was not the time and he sure as hell wasn't about to fuck someone in this place, even if it weren't Ellen. "Actually, I bet there's one in there from when she was about six and she went through a ballerina stage. Great for balance, so I ponied up the money. Bill thought it was hilarious."

The way Jo mugged for attention now, he could see it. He could see her twirling around in little pink shoes, her blonde hair flying, smiling at the camera like it was a damn Hollywood spotlight and he fished open the wallet to check for pictures. If nothing else, he had to get them out of the wallet before he stashed it away. No point in wasting something good quality and Ellen didn't seem like she'd mind.

With a little flick, he got the thin sheets of plastic apart so that he could get a look at the pictures and sure enough there was Jo, tutu and all, smiling at the camera. "Damn." He chuckled a little.

"It is pretty funny now," Ellen confessed, leaning closer and peering at the picture too. "But back then I bitched about the cost. Training little ballerinas isn't cheap, especially not with the closest dance school a good 60 miles away."

He swallowed. Jo didn't have a fucking clue how lucky she'd been.

"Yeah. Here." Careful not to get dirt smudges on it, he pried the picture out of the plastic and flipped it over to look at the other one. Another of Jo, blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

Ellen took the picture and held it, still looking at the next one. Her chin was nearly touching his chest as she peered down at it. "Check out the cake on that one. It's her favorite animal."

Underneath the smell of sweat in her hair came the sweeter smell of cinnamon and apples. Not something he'd have expected of her, unlike the ballerina outfit on Jo. But he made sure to keep his eyes on the picture, squinting to make out an icing shape on a fifteen year old picture. "Dude. Is that a peacock?"

"Sure is. Do you know how hard it is to get a peacock cake?" She snorted and tugged the picture away, revealing the third and final from the wallet.

"It's Sarah Connor!" he said, before he could stop himself. Dean knew it was stupid before he said it because the woman in the picture had dark brown hair, not the blonde of Linda Hamilton. But the pose was a dead ringer for the picture from Terminator. The woman, she was young, Dean guessed, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, was looking off into the distance. The wind was blowing her hair behind her and she was aiming a shotgun.

Knowing Ellen hunted... Maybe it wasn't the wind giving them the breeze in the picture.

Ellen snorted at him now, hard and amused, and he could feel his neck heating up. "That was my fool of a husband taking a picture in the middle of a hunt so that when he went hunting, he'd always have me with him," she told him, her voice gone soft. "You can't see it from here, but Jo was sleeping in the backseat of the car we were driving at the time. She was two and a few days before that shot was taken she'd made a prison break out of a motel room we were staying in. That's about the time I took over Harvelle's from Bill's ailing uncle."

He handed the last picture her solemnly. "Sounds like an interesting guy." Jo was lucky and, damn, any man who could make Ellen look like she was now, soft and gentle and strong all at once, was just about the luckiest man in the world.

"He was a good man." She pressed the pictures together in her palms. After a beat, she stood, all long, jean-clad legs to his line of sight, and he watched her pocket the pictures like she had the necklace. "It's starting to turn dusky out there and we've got ten more boxes to go. Break's over."

He very firmly kept his eyes north of her ass as he stood. "I'll pick up the pace with the boxes," he told her. "You get started salting and nailing the horseshoes." He looked around the place; the shadows were lengthening. "Putting up the lanterns too." How she was going to make it out here with no electricity or running water... He was gonna have to build her a firepit somewhere outside before he left. He and Sam had gone primitive before, when money was tight, but it wasn't something they'd ever planned on as a lifestyle choice. Camping sucked.

She gave him a look that said she could read that thought right out of him and nodded. "Go on, get to work."

With a mock salute, he started to jog toward the truck, double-time. There probably wasn't any cause for concern, not with two experienced hunters in the middle of a 100 mile wide iron Devil's Trap but Ellen was right. No reason to take reckless chances. There was always the possibility that something that had escaped that night hadn't left yet. Something waiting for a night just like this. Not all demons were as smart as the yellow-eyed demon and the grounds only went so far.

* * *

How Ellen had made decent burgers out of a crap wooden stove that probably hadn't been used in a hundred years, Dean might never figure out. He still fucked up Mac & Cheese sometimes. This wasn't the first time he'd been amazed by what she pulled out of the stove in the last two days. Day trip, his ass.

Though maybe nobody had mentioned it was a day trip when they'd first started out for the western border of Nebraska. The trip to check out what was left of the Roadhouse and collect Ellen things. Now he'd personally figured on it being a day trip, two at most. Ellen had worked out the whole insurance deal quicker than even she'd expected, tracked down whoever owned the cemetery land with a little church not far from it sometime before then, and made an offer all before she'd called him in to do the lifting and lugging part. He'd figured everything else would go as quick but, hell, what did he know about moving?

The most he knew about moving was throwing the few clothes and books he had into a fading green rucksack and tossing it into the trunk of the Impala or their dad's truck. But this was moving for real. Ellen had decided she was here to stay, standing sentinel. 'Course they couldn't ask for a better guard.

"You're eating that thing like it's the last burger on Earth," Ellen said, across from him with her feet propped up on one of the chairs they'd scavenged from the small home portion of the church. It looked like there had been some kind of wicker bottom to it, to sit on, but that had rotted away or fallen out over time. "It isn't that good."

"'m hung'y," he muttered around a bite of food as he leaned forward over the paper plate that must've been in one of the boxes he'd lugged in. He swallowed the food down so that he could talk properly. And so he wouldn't get that look, that 'What are you doing talking with your mouth full?' look, from Ellen. "I'm hungry. And you said you wanted to get a start on the roof before nightfall."

She raised her eyebrows at him, one arm looped over the back of the pew she was sitting on. He'd taken up a place on the steps, 'cause those, the pews, and Ellen's bed in the back room of the church were the only places left to sit in the whole building. And he sure as hell wasn't eating in her bedroom or going in there at all if he could help it; it was just too weird and he'd been having too many thoughts involving a bedroom and her over the last couple of days. Sammy'd probably tell him it was because he wanted to affirm his life or some shit like that. Sam had some weird ideas.

"I don't mind," he added once the silence went on long. Damn but she had that look down. "Okay, so I wasn't expected it to take this long," he admitted, cracking. _How the hell had Jo learned to defy that look?_ he wondered. "And it's not like I know anything about fixing roofs. I'll help, like I said I would, but I think I'm going to be a shitty carpenter."

"You just listen to me and I'll tell you what to do. This isn't my first time tangling with a bad roof and this one's gotta be fixed soon before it comes down on our heads." She sighed, and the lines on her face seemed exaggerated a moment, before Dean blinked and it went away.

"Yeah," he agreed as he tore off another piece of burger to stuff in his mouth. Fries would've gone good with this but she'd served up some sort of vegetable, green and tasteless, instead. He'd eaten that first. Whatever they were, the taste of meat and onions had washed the last of the bad aftertaste and he'd even managed not to make a face while eating them, he thought.

She sighed again, shifting the plate off of where she'd balanced it on her thighs and put it on the pew next to her. "I'm surprised Jim didn't set you to doing carpentry back when you stayed with him as a kid. He was big on working with your hands to find the spirit. Even put Jo to work once when we visited and she wouldn't stop running around."

"We worked," he told her. "He worked us like dogs. He had me tutoring younger bible study classes." Dean snorted in memory. At the time, it'd stung. Knowing why Father Murphy was doing it stung even more. But that bitterness, the tightness in his chest and throat, that used to hit when he thought about that was mostly gone now, replaced by an entirely different sorrowful pang. "He usually had Sammy scrubbing pots in the soup kitchen. And then he'd check our homework and we had chores in the church and in his home. Never did any carpentry or plumbing though."

"Bible study," she whistled a little. "Can't see you doing that. Your dad leave you with 'im often?" The wrinkles on her face smoothed out as much as they ever did. She still hadn't straightened up but the wire feet of the chair knocked hard against the wood floors when she shifted her feet.

"Kinda depended on what was going on. I guess," he paused to think about it and count mentally. "We probably spent about one week out of every month with him. And more, when Sammy hit school and they wanted to track him into gifted classes. Father Jim gave Dad a talking to about raising us right."

"Sounds like Jim." Her voice had gone rough and deep, but he didn't quite look at her face. It hadn't occurred to him that she'd probably known Father Murphy, being as the priest was a hunter and all and that was Ellen's business. She'd probably known Caleb too. "Your brother ever think about trying to clean up this mess he's in and go back to college, even under a new identity?"

"I wish," he said. "I wish he would. Go back and forget all about this life. I wish I'd never dragged him back in, even if I didn't want to do it alone." He ran a hand through his hair and it was dirty with dust and grit when he pulled it out. Gross. "He thinks this is his life now. I'm hoping that changes in a year."

For as long as it took to pick up her plate and hold her hand out for his, Ellen stayed silent. But as he handed his over, popping the last of the food in his mouth, she said, "Probably for the best. We can't afford to lose a good hunter. We can't afford to lose you either but seems like that die's been cast."

There just wasn't anything to say to that but it didn't stop Dean from getting pissed. "I'm going to wash up. Where the hell did you put the hand wipes?" Rather than waste her precious water, Ellen had brought those for cleaning. Worse than damned sponge baths.

"Oh, now honey, don't get that attitude at me for telling you the truth," she told him, pointing to a partially opened cardboard box at the far end of the stage. "No one gets into hunting because it's the best choice they got except maybe you and that was because it was the only choice your daddy ever gave you. And right now, we can't afford to lose someone who's got some experience with demons, there just ain't enough know-how to go around."

"I wasn't about to just let Sam die." It came out cold, angry, even if what it felt like in his head was a raging fire.

"I know." She stood, taking the plates with her to put in the bag of trash they'd set out. "I know and I'm glad you didn't. That boy, sad as it is, might be our best hope to put this all to rights." The bag rustled as she dumped everything in but not enough he missed her next words. "I know hunters, Dean, and most of 'em aren't going to be worth shit when it comes down to it. They're ghost hunters, maybe a monster or two. There's two, just two, hunters devoted to demons in this whole country that I know of and Bobby's one of 'em. You got any idea how screwed we are?"

"We were screwed before." He fished a wet wipe out of the box she'd been pointing to and scrubbed at his greasy, dusty hands. "So if you angling to find out if Sammy'll run, he won't. He had the chance before, I told the idiot to go, and he didn't. Me dying probably won't change that."

"Not like this." Her hair whipped around her face when she shook her head, mouth set. "There's probably a hunter out there right now, dying 'cause what he thought was a ghost hunt turned out to be a demon instead. Your brother can help. You can help." She frowned, like she wanted to say something more. But she didn't say it. Ellen didn't say a damn thing more as she came over and took a wipe of her own.

"Right now, I really don't give a shit." It was a simple statement. "My concern is what little I've got left and Sammy tops that list."

"And how safe is Sam now?" she asked, tossing the balled wipe at the open trash. She hit it dead on.

"Safer than anyone else if he figures out how to control demons." He mimicked her, the wipe floating in dead center. "It might not mean going insane or killing people."

"That was my thought, yeah." Ellen turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Safer yet if he finds the others like him and gets to them before the demons or bad luck does. I like your brother, Dean, I don't want anything bad happening to him."

A cold chill ran through him. Others like him. Crap, in all the mess, he'd forgotten there might be others. Other generations. And some of them might be mighty pissed off at his brother.

Didn't think of that, did you, honey?" Ellen asked him softly. "And soon he isn't going to have you to watch his back."

He hadn't thought of it. With his hand, he gripped his dry mouth and tasted antiseptic. "Shit." What the hell were they supposed to do about that?

A hand dropped gently on his shoulder and he glanced over to see Ellen giving him a serious look, as serious as when she'd realized his father hadn't sent them on account of John being dead. "You need to talk this over with Sam, sweetie, and figure out something to do in the time you've got left. That boy, he might need to step up and be a leader, like that thing apparently planned. It might be unavoidable. But it's not going to work the way he is now. Too many people are spooked that kids like him exist at all and, like I said, I don't want anything happening to him. But they'll only listen to me to a point; hunters are stubborn that way."

He gagged on the smell from his hand, or maybe it was the imagined taste of rot, the remembered smell of slowly decomposing flesh and the smell of sulfur that awaited him. Shit, he'd left Sam to deal with all this on his own. "Yeah," he said roughly, looking down at her. Funny, she seemed so tall in his head, it was strange to not be meeting her eyes without looking down. "First," Dean swallowed it away, swallowed it all away. "We got a roof to fix, don't we?"

"Yeah, we got a roof to fix." She smiled at him. "We got a whole damn world to fix but the roof's a good place to start."

* * *

Dean didn't think he was anything resembling a light sleeper. He slept deep and heavy and rolled out easy and refreshed no matter how little sleep he got. But there was one thing you learned, being John Winchester's son, it was to wake the hell up when your ears heard something unusual. Like the quiet snuffling and gasping that was coming from the other room.

Now, the other thing he'd learned from John Winchester was not to fuck with people grieving on their own. His dad had certainly never appreciated it. The one time he'd ever really hit Dean, outside of training, had come on the tail end of a bad binge when he'd been about seven or eight and gone up to his dad to try and drag him to bed and comfort him.

But Ellen was not his dad and it wasn't like he hadn't spent years after learning how to deal with people grieving lost things and people. It became part of the life to get info from people too choked up to talk or too scared to be coherent.

"Oh, fuck it." He shoved the unzipped sleeping bag top off and pushed himself up. He figured if she took a swing, he could take her. So he stood, nudging the bag closed with his foot to keep any brave bug out of the inside. The creepy crawlies were damn near everywhere in the place, hiding out in corners to ambush you while you walked underneath them or sat down. Freakin' bugs.

Shuddering a little, he stepped out of the room he'd crashed in. It looked like it might have been the priest's office back in the day, while Ellen had set up shop in the bedroom. The bedroom that, when he'd glanced in to say goodnight, had looked a damn lot like somewhere lived in even though none of the living quarters in the Roadhouse had survived the fire. Where she'd gotten the stuff, he didn't know but there'd even been a picture on a wall. Right next to the salted horseshoe he'd nailed in over the window.

Now he could see some moonlight leaking through the crack in the door where Ellen hadn't quite closed it after he'd said goodnight. No wonder he'd heard the crying; standing right outside the door here, you'd have to be deaf not to hear it.

He stopped short of entering, still hesitating, before turning back to get her some water. Sick sobs like that were going to make her bone dry when they tapered off.

Now armed -- with something that doubled as an offering and a weapon, Dean nudged the door open fully. "Ellen?"

"D-Dean?" her voice sounded rough in the dark, choked up. Choked up enough he found himself glad he'd brought the water.

"I got you some water. Sounded like you could use it," he said from the doorway, not quite stepping in. It wasn't usual for him to be so uncertain about entering womens' bedrooms but those bedrooms weren't Ellen's. So, he took a step in, then stopped, holding up the glass so that she could see.

"Ye-ah," her voice cracked halfway through and he heard her sniffle loudly. Next she sucked in a long, shuddery breath. "Thanks. Didn't mean to wake you." She used the heel of her palms to scrub at her cheeks vigorously and this, with the moonlight creeping in over her features...

She looked almost fragile, exhaustion lines on her face and her face damp with sweat and tears. When she'd clutched him tight, tight enough it hurt his bones, back in Bobby's scrapyard she hadn't seemed fragile then. Or when she'd questioned Bobby about the holy water shot and asked for whiskey. She hadn't seemed fragile then.

Dean wasn't sure he knew what to do with fragile here, with someone who wouldn't just be a half-faded face in two days time, but he stepped over to the bed anyway. Right now, they were the only two people for a hundred miles, and so if someone had to step up to the plate it'd be him. He crouched down, his knee popping to protest how the rest of him felt from the work on the roof they'd done in early evening.

"I'll leave you alone," he muttered quickly, pressing one cool side of the glass against her outstretched hand. "I didn't mean to pry, I just heard and -- Sorry."

She took the glass from him and the knuckles of her right hand gleamed white. They weren't shaking, he noticed, and was glad. If Ellen was shaking, Dean thought it might be more than he could handle. Women like Ellen shouldn't shake. "It's fine, honey."

"Okay. Uh. I'll be in the other room. Shout if you need anything." Careful to make sure she had a good hold on the glass, Dean started to get back up when Ellen made a small sound.

It took him until he was down again, crouched next to the bed, to realize it'd been a snort. "Is there any particular reason you're so scared of me, honey, or are you like this with all women over Jo's age?"

He bristled. "I'm good with older women," he told her, defending himself. "They always tell me the shit they won't tell Sammy. It's the know-it-all attitude." And maybe that was the best way to handle it; be normal. It seemed like she was calming down anyway. "'Sides, you're a pretty scary woman, Ellen."

" _You've_ never seen me scary." He got an image of that picture, of her with the shotgun aimed at a ghost in the distance, and thought that might be true. Though the silent ride back from Philly hadn't been fun times for anyone involved. "And I'm sure you're the charmer, just like your daddy. That man never met a woman he couldn't charm the pants off of. Though I got a feeling he met a lot he couldn't keep charmed after a few days with him."

"If he couldn't do it with his own sons, I suppose not." His knee popped as he moved to sit down on the bed next to her and Dean rubbed it lightly. "I was barely out of diapers but he was different before, with my mom."

"I imagine he was or your mother had the patience of a saint," she told him, regaining the edge in her voice. She even took a sip of water. "I am sorry for waking you."

He shrugged and looked around the room some. "Like what you've done with the place. Needs some flowers in the windowsill though." Dean couldn't get a good look at the picture on the opposite wall but he thought he caught a glimpse of blonde hair. Maybe it was a shot of Jo.

"Flowers?" She snorted again as she sat up, the comforter pooling around her waist and giving him an uncomfortably good idea of her tits underneath the nightgown she wore when he glanced back over to nod.

His eyes were focused back on the windowsill before he answered. "Yeah. Maybe some, uh, daisies or something."

"I seem like a daisy person to you."

"What are the purple flowers? Violets then. Give the place some color."

"Keep digging, Dean. Eventually you'll hit China." Ellen's eyes were still pretty red but her mouth was curled up. Crisis averted. For now at least. That kind of pain never really went away. It dulled over time for some and crushed others. It'd crushed his dad. He couldn't imagine something like this crushing a woman like Ellen, who'd survived her own loss once already...

But everyone had their limits.

"At least I know not to say 'but women like flowers'?" he tried, giving her his best 'I'm harmless, ma'am' smile. "I was only thinking the place could use some color. It looks like a church."

"It is a church." He got that chuckle from her that always went straight to his dick, deep and throaty. "It's gonna be a church long after I'm dead and dust."

He ignored his dick and asked, "But is there any law it's got to look like a church?" 'Cause, really, the big ass freakin' cross in the front room had started freaking him out sometime around dinner yesterday. At least it didn't have a Jesus nailed to it like some of Father Murphy's.

"Just the ones that talk about desecrating churches as bad. I'll make you a deal, Dean, you find flowers around here and I'll put 'em up. But you gotta do it in your spare time, no slacking off work." She shifted the covers again as she took another drink and he got another nice look at the outline of her tits. No bra either and he could see just the tiniest bit of her nipple poking out against the fabric in the cool air.

He was in a church. Jesus. And when he lifted his eyes up, feeling sheepish for looking, they met Ellen's.

 _Oh. Shit._ Well, at least he wasn't going to have wait another eleven some months before he keeled over dead. Ellen was gonna do it for him right now.

"Yes, Dean, I am a woman," she said, a little sarcastically. "Thanks for noticing."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him -- a little low, just in case she went past killing straight to maiming -- as he backed up off the bed. "I didn't mean to -- I'm. Shit."

"You done?" One eyebrow raised with the question and he swallowed so hard his dry throat hurt from it.

"Done looking? Damn straight."

"Done cowering for looking, I mean." She leaned over the side of the bed and the nightgown -- shirt, really -- slipped up and he got a glimpse of a tone stomach and belly button. Ellen set the glass of water down, out of the way, and straightened. "I don't know about you, Dean, but I could use someone to hold me right now. If you aren't going to step up, go back to bed."

He was sure if Sam had been here there'd been some smartass remarks about gaping but he couldn't help himself. Ellen had just...

No, he couldn't even think it all the way through. She'd just --

"Like --" With a clink, he shut his mouth hard on the rest of that sentence and reached up to rub the back of his neck, hoping for a little inspiration instead. Ellen had just come onto him. Shit. "I've never had any complaints about being able to step up before," Dean said finally.

It even got a smile. "Oh, I'm sure you haven't."

He figured the best place to start would probably be by sitting back down. So he did, next to her, soaking in the body heat and the smell of cinnamon and apples. It had to be the soap she used that left her smelling that homemade apple pie. He leaned close to her neck, put his nose right at her pulse point and inhaled. Even her hair smelled like it. Underneath his cheek, she shuddered a little and let a little breath out when he moved his hand to her side.

The shirt didn't last long as a barrier before Dean had his fingers pressed around the muscular curve of her waist. He had his thumb against her ribs, able to outline one or two before there was too much muscle in the way to feel the bones. "Uh." Damn, but the last time he'd been this nervous with a woman had to have been years ago. "Can I?" He let go of her waist to nab the hem of her shirt just to be clear.

"Dean, you've been eyeballing me since we got here." She slid back out of his hands and pulled up her shirt herself. "And right now I need to be touched. That's all this is. I'm sure you're damn well used to it so there's no reason to be nervous." Her tits were great, sagging a little, with hard nipples jutting out toward him. "If you can't handle it, walk away right now. Neither of us need the complication."

"Sorry," he mumbled because she was more right than wrong. It wouldn't be the first time around this block for either of them and it helped knowing what she wanted. It helped knowing she wanted it just to want it.

It helped she was freakin' hot. He swallowed, giving her a world class easy grin, and leaned forward to kiss her.

Her hands settled on his shoulders and she molded herself against him as they kissed. Yeah, Ellen knew what she was doing and exactly what she wanted out of the kiss. It was all lips, no tongue, just teasing little bites.

Dean was damn well glad he hadn't assumed Ellen was anything like his dad when she was crying.

* * *

Despite the lack of indoor plumbing, Dean would be a little sorry to put this place behind him. He had to get back. Sam had managed to get a call through late last night about a demon rampage just north of Indianapolis and, as little as he wanted to tangle with a demon right now, he couldn't stay knowing something like that was out there killing innocent people right now. For better for worse, that was what his dad had taught him.

So, with a look over at Ellen -- who'd woken up with him when the phone had rung -- Dean'd told Sam to get started toward Wyoming and he'd be ready for pick-up by the time the Impala got here. But he hadn't even had a chance to hang up the phone before she'd snatched it out of his hand, muttering directions at Sammy with the sleep still half in her voice. Supplies she needed, mostly, to finish patching up the church by herself now that most of the base work had been done. By the time she'd hung up the phone, Dean had already been half-dozing but happy to be part of the one last bout of bedroom games she'd been up for before he needed to get ready to go.

Now he was pacing in front of the pulpit wondering what the hell was taking Sam so damn long to get here. Not that he was looking forward to all the questions he was gonna get about how quick Ellen was to the phone but every minute he sat here waiting, it made him itchy. "I'll have Sammy drop me back off on our way back, after it's done," he told Ellen. She was sitting in the front pew, watching him with an amused look on her face. "Bobby'll be wanting his truck back."

"I get the feeling that's not the only reason why you want to come back, honey," she told him, propping her feet up and stretching out along the pew. "Bring me back some whiskey when you come."

"Got a preference on brand?" he asked, pacing back to where he could see out the tinted front windows of the church again. Still no Impala. His brother had to be driving like a fucking grandma. "And, huh, I think the best sex I've had in awhile counts pretty highly on a reason to do anything." He shot her a grin.

"And here I thought it was my cooking. Jack Daniels'll do me." She gave a long, breathy sigh. "No, on second thought, beer. It'll taste better after scut work. Whiskey's for enjoying."

"You're gonna be out here alone most of the time. I think both beer and whiskey's called for." Right now, he could do with one or the other himself. "Sam drives like a freakin' grandma and he better not have done anything to my car. What was I thinking leaving her alone with him?"

"You were thinking all my stuff wouldn't fit in the Impala unless we took the damn roof off and it wasn't like Sam would be driving," she said reasonably. "Now come here and sit down. You're making me dizzy."

"I could've taken the car, driven behind the truck," he argued but he walked over to the front pew and sat next to her, slouching down so that he wouldn't be tempted to look over his shoulder at the windows. "Then I could've gone and picked him up, not the other way around."

"Would've been a round trip because I still need those supplies."

The car was fine. Sam knew better than to mess with his girl. And worse, Ellen still hadn't found the little surprise he'd decided to leave for her. Maybe he should just tell her. It'd come off more casual that way. "Speaking of supplies," he started, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. "Don't let me forget to get some extra ammo out of the Impala. I'm leaving the shotgun and I've only got a box of prepped shells here."

"I got a gun, Dean," Ellen told him, voice going a little tight. "I don't need your sawed-off."

"You've got a pistol, which you can put the bedroom. And then you can put the shotgun out here," he argued. "Unless you plan on carrying the gun with you at all times."

"That's your favorite gun," she said. "Didn't you bring any others you can loan me until I build up my stock again?" Ellen ran a hand through her hair, flicking it behind her right ear.

Why couldn't she just accept the damn gun? "It's a good gun, that's why I like it, and I know there's extra ammo for it in the car."

"So where'd you hide the piece?" Ellen dropped her hand down onto his shoulder and squeezed tightly. Damn, he liked it better when she was using that grip lower.

"In your nightstand." He glanced at the window -- still no Sammy -- and grinned. "But forget the gun. It doesn't look like --" The Impala honked. From the other side of the building, where the back door was. "Damn."

"Your brother's got your daddy's sense of timing," Ellen muttered, leaning in to give him a firm kiss. "Hunt well. Thanks for the gun."

What did that mean? Dean didn't get the chance to ask as the back door jingled loud enough for him to hear it all the way from here. He yelled back, "Sam, I'm coming!" as he got up to grab his stuff. "See you... later." However long the trip and shopping supplies and getting back here took. "Oh. The shells. I'll go get 'em."

"Yeah." She stood up. "We'll both go. I should say hello to your brother."

Oh, that'd go well. So long as Sam didn't take that time to ask why Ellen'd grabbed his phone right from him and how she'd been in the position to do that at 1AM. He snorted, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder as he wound through the small church, Ellen on his heels. Sam stood waiting on the other side of the back door, looking equal parts tired and bitch. So, normal Sammy.

"You spend the whole week reading?" he asked, starting for the car. "Pop the trunk."

"I spent the week doing productive things, Dean," Sam said. "What about you?" He gave the church a once over as he slid the key into the trunk, opening it.

"I spent the week doing manual labor," he said, dropping the bag at his feet as the trunk popped open. He grabbed two extra boxes of shells, counting the four they had left, and jogged over to give them back to Ellen. "Here."

She took them solemnly and nodded. "Hey, Sam," Ellen called, waving the hand not holding the shells.

"Hey, Ellen. Place is looking liveable," he called back, giving Dean a look. "Dean, ready?"

"Yeah. Let's go." He looked at Ellen, standing there in the dusk and was reminded of that picture. "I'll see you around."

"Sure you will. Don't forget the whiskey."

Dean grinned. Like he'd forget the whiskey. Then he started back to the car, tossing his bag in back seat and slamming the trunk shut. "Sammy, keys." Sam gave them up without any protest, tossing them over the top of the car. "So, this demon in Indianapolis. What's the deal?"


End file.
